


Sucker's Luck, You've Given Up

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Amnesia, F/F, F/M, M/M, Malnutrition, Other, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, dave being stupid about his health, everyone being sad, vague dream shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 20:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>Author: Narrate the beginning ==></b>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>This is the story of four children set free from a monstrous game. And this is the story of Gods rendered human again, and also the story of four people suffering extreme memory loss and traumatic distress. </p><p>But, really, it's a story about a boy named Dave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sucker's Luck, You've Given Up

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song Exile Vilify by The National. References to the excellent movie I, Robot.

“You should get rid of the shades.” John tells you. “They look pretentious and also douchey and no one wants to smooch you.” 

“I need 'em bro.” you reply. “It get's all the hipster panties wet, it's like Niagara fucking Falls, the floor's like the fucking Great Lakes when I get done with that shit.” 

“Ew!” is what you get, and a punch to the arm. There's cold instant coffee in the mug in your hand and it settles into your empty stomach like acid. 

When you move to kiss him goodbye before you walk out the door John laughs and tugs your glasses askew. 

You drag your palms down the sharp concrete walls all the way down the stairs. 

~O~

You toss club-ready beats like candy into the crowd, adding your special twist, flavoring it a little bit à la Strider. They eat it up, eat your club-smile up. You can't explain the ease of the grooves and the way time twists when you touch the records. 

When you climb down from your turn-table altar the crowd threatens to swallow you down. 

“You're doing what you've always want to, Dave!” Jade had chirped at you. You run a thumb over the rivets in your jeans and count them off like a mantra in your head. 

“Yeah.” you whisper into the noisy dark and the people around you don't even hear. 

~O~

Sometimes it's good. Sometimes, in clubs lit red and shiny chrome, the music spins out almost by itself. Sometimes you come home shinning with happiness. Those nights the blankets don't hurt when they spread over you in the dark. 

Rose smiles on those nights, and braids Jade's hair. John bakes cake and pretends he isn't crying. 

You pretend not to notice. 

~O~

You get sick every year in April. 

~O~

The fever eats into your sanity. Hallucinations flicker at the edges of you vision, the gleam of gears in your shiny mixing equipment. Sometimes, at night when there's no Rose and no John and no Jade to ground yourself in, you swear the walls breathe. 

There's music playing somewhere that you can only just hear. 

You nuzzle the skin on the inside of your wrist and wonders at how soft it is. It's like velvet against your lips, your cheek. You ache all over. 

“Dave?” John leans in your door and whispers at you. 

“You can't do anything, John.” Rose pulls him away and leaves you to shiver it out under your sheets. You love her for it. 

You lick your wrist and your dry tongue drags over the skin. 

~O~

You dream about starving to death in a purple cathedral. 

~O~

You wake with no break from the dream of hunger to hunger. 

You crawl out of your room and sit at your mixing table and Egbert makes concerned noises. You can't hear him through the sounds in your head, measures and harmonies you run your fingertips over again and again until you could enumerate them like rivets on jeans. 

You sign the top of the staff paper, _D. Strider_ , and title it _Derse_. 

When you go to stand there's nothing in your skin but air and your vision collapses into a tunnel. 

~O~

You open your eyes to surgical white and the special sterile scent of hospitals. 

“Quite an impressive composition.” Rose tells you when you've blinked the sleep from the corners of your eyes. She looks at you over the scrawled notes of your music and you want to take the paper back and cradle it to your chest until it's safe again. 

“I'm Beethoven.” you deadpan, your fingertips drumming a staccato beat on the sheets. There's no music behind it, nothing but impatience. 

“I give daily praise to god that you are not deaf. You would be simply unbearable.” She slides the paper under your hands and watches how you clutch at the staff-lines. You don't mind the scrutiny. 

Her hands are precisely arranged in her lap, around a half-finished cashmere lavender scarf. 

“Do you knit?” you ask, but by the time the sound makes its way out you're asleep again. 

~O~

You wake to a rhythmic clacking and you turn your head. It takes more effort than anything should. 

Rose's knitting needles tap together and flash in the light. You want to scream, or maybe throw up. There's slicing pain in your abdomen. You remember this feels like dying. 

“Rose.” you gasp, and she sets the needles neatly in her lap. Your hands flutter against the sheets like moths. 

She draws the sword from your chest easily and throws it to the floor. 

“Oh.” you say, and wake up. 

Rose glances up from her knitting beside your bed. 

~O~

“We do not have the money to send you to the hospital for such a simple matter as malnutrition.” Rose's posture is near-perfect. You can tell without looking at her. 

“Yes we do.” You wave blankly in the air above your head. 

“Yes we do.” Rose concedes easily. You wonder where John and Jade are. 

“Do they know?” you ask. 

You drift off before Rose answers. You're not sure she answers at all. 

~O~

You dream there's a a man in a baseball cap and spiky sunglasses sitting to your left and a blind girl in red glasses to your right. You're crying. 

“Little man, you're doing great.” 

“Who are you?” you gasp out. You don't spare a thought to your lost dignity, the lost _cool_ in crying in front of them. 

“Don't be a hero, coolkid!” she tells you, standing. You twitch helplessly as the dream falls apart. 

~O~

“Rose never answers my questions.” you say idly. 

“Maybe you're asking stupid questions.” Jade offers lightly. You don't miss that she doesn't look at you. 

“What even are the right questions?” you ask, frustrated. 

“I'm sorry, my responses are limited. You must ask the right question.” Jade giggles. 

“That's me, fucking Will Smith up in this shit.” You try to laugh and gag on it. 

~O~

The mug of coffee in your hands has turned cold and acidic. The television is on mute and you can't pick out the plot of the characters dancing across it, no matter how you try. 

Rose leans over your shoulder and sets the mug aside. You glance at the dark smudges under her eyes. 

“Bad dreams?” you ask idly. 

“I cannot merely enjoy the pleasure of your company?” she asks chidingly, but you both know you can see right through it. 

“Wanna talk about it?” 

“Not terribly.” she sits beside you and joins your contemplation of the mute television. 

“Rose.” you say, a while later. “You ever feel like you're supposed to be doing something... more?” 

She sighs softly, heartrendingly resigned. 

“Maybe we were.”


End file.
